Afghanistan or Iraq?
by FeatherAura12
Summary: John Watson is looking for a flatmate, but the man his friend Mike takes him to meet is nothing like what he was expecting.


John wasn't 100% sure why he was even doing this. He was perfectly fine by himself, but Mike wouldn't take no for an answer. And as they made their way through the halls of Bart's Hospital, John couldn't help but wonder who he was being taken to meet. Another retired soldier, maybe? After all, practically anyone could get a flatmate without much trouble. Just contact a friend and there you are.

"Here we are." Mike said cheerfully, and opened the door for John. The room they entered seemed to be a chemistry lab; the walls were covered with cabinets and sinks, and the central counter was laden with lamps, wires, bottles, and an inordinate amount of beakers. A tall man with black curly hair stood behind the counter, using a dropper to put something into a petri dish. He glanced up as they came in, but said nothing.

"Bit different from my day." John commented.

"Oh, you've no idea." his companion chuckled.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?" the man with the dropper requested in a low baritone voice. "There's no signal on mine."

"What's wrong with the landline?" Mike queried in response.

"I prefer to text."

"Sorry. It's in my coat."

"Uh, here." John chimed in, pulling his cell from his pocket. "Use mine."

"Oh." The stranger looked at him with pale gray eyes, then at Mike, as if asking who John was, then back. "Thank you."

"That's an old friend of mine." Mike explained, pointing as the quite tall man made his way over. "John Watson." John handed over his phone. The man had just flipped it open when he asked, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

In response to his alarmed look, Mike just smirked at John, as if saying, "Here we go."

"Sorry?" he asked, turning his gaze to the strange man using his phone.

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" The repetition of the question didn't make it make any more sense than the first time. Nor did a second, quizzical glance at Mike offer any more answer than a repeat of the sly grin from before. Seeing as there was no alternative, John answered as the door opened, "Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you-"

"Ah, Molly. Coffee, thank you." His query was cut off by the stranger as a small woman in a lab coat came up beside him and handed him a cup of coffee. "What happened to the lipstick?"

"It wasn't working for me." the lab assistant answered the seemingly random question after a pause.

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement." was the return as the man started back to his station. "Your mouth's too- small now." He took a sip of the coffee, and John thought he saw a grimace.

"Okay." the woman said breathily.

"How do you feel about the violin?" the stranger asked as he began typing on a computer. John peered at both at the retreating back of the lab assistant and at Mike for the third time, but no one told him what was going on. He was starting to wonder if this was all a big joke.

"Sorry, what?" he asked, getting tired of saying that.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days...on...end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." This was all said without a single breath taken and followed up by a friendly smile.

"We- you- you told him about me?" John asked Mike, knowing that must be the explanation.

"Not a word." he replied, shaking his head innocently. Yep, definitely a grand joke.

"Then who said anything about flatmates?" There was no way John wanted to consider living with someone before he even knew them.

"I did." answered the man. He picked up a long black trench coat from a chair nearby him and began to put it on over his suit, continuing, "Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch with an old friend clearly just home from military in Afghanistan." Leaving the collar of his coat up, the man wrapped a scarf around his neck and finished as he tied it off, "Wasn't a difficult leap."

John was starting to get sick of being the only one in the room who had no clue what was going on, so he had to ask, "How did you know about Afghanistan?"

"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London." he continued as if John hadn't even spoken. "Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash. Think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." This was all feeling extremely surreal. A complete stranger who knew he was a soldier who'd been in Afghanistan without even being told just said they would meet later to look at a flat to live in together. What in the name of sanity was happening here?

"Is that it?" John said shortly, turning as the man walked by him and for the door.

"Is that what?" the stranger asked as he spun around, sounding for all the world like _he_ was the one being left of the joke.

"We've only just met, and we're going to go look at a flat." John infused as much sarcasm into the phrase as he could.

"Problem?" John grinned at Mike, having figured out the prank by now, but his friend just glanced at the other man and said nothing.

"We don't know a thing about each other." John explained, feeling as if he were talking to a child. "I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name."

The man tilted his head down, as if he was curious as to why he had to clarify the situation, and began, "I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife." Every word that left this man's mouth was making John feel tighter and tighter; all of it was completely true. It was a feeling akin to being asked to strip down in public. If Mike hadn't told him anything, then what on earth was going on? Oblivious to John's distress, the flow of information continued. "And I know your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid." John glanced down at his leg and shifted uncomfortably. "It's...enough to be going on with, don't you think?" And just like that, the man who knew all about John though they'd only just met opened the door and started out. John could only stare at the wall uneasily. From the corner of his eye, he saw the stranger swing back in and add, "The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street." He clicked his tongue and winked at John, threw in an, "Afternoon!" to Mike, and left. Mike gestured in acknowledgement in the direction of where Mr. Holmes had been. Now all John could stare at was the door as it clapped shut, then at his friend sitting at the counter.

"Yeah. He's always like that." Mike confirmed with a tiny nod.

That man had just described John's situation in perfect detail, right on all counts. How was that even possible?

* * *

Later, John had decided to go with Sherlock see the flat, but they'd only just been there a few minutes when a police man came and his potential flatmate was summoned to where a suicide had taken place. And that was how John ended up in a cab during what was meant to be a simple meeting to look at 221B.

They sat in silence, as Sherlock was messing about on his phone, but John couldn't help staring. How had this man known all about him back at Bart's? As if sensing his stare, Sherlock looked up from his phone and glanced at John out of the corner of his eye. He inhaled deeply, like he was bracing himself, and said, "Okay, you've got questions."

"Yeah, where are we going?" John asked, starting simple.

"Crime scene. Next?"

"Who are you? What do you do?"

"What do you think?"

John paused, remembering the way the police man had talked to Sherlock, and replied hesitantly, "I'd say private detective."

"But?"

"But the police don't go to private detectives."

Sherlock smirked. "I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that when the police are out of their depth, which is always," John looked at him sharply, but he ignored it, "they consult me."

"The police don't consult amateurs." He couldn't help the amused tone that crept into his voice. Sherlock glanced at him with an almost patronizing look.

"When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said Afghanistan or Iraq. You looked surprised."

"Yes, how did you know?" Here was what John really wanted to talk about.

"I didn't know. I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. And your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Bart's, so army doctor. Obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic, wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, sun tan, Afghanistan or Iraq." He finished with emphasis on the q, like it was an open and shut case, but John could feel his face contorted in startled confusion.

" _He can tell my whole career from_ that _?_ " John thought, stunned.

"You said I had a therapist." he reminded him, grasping at straws.

"You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist." Sherlock replied in a tone that said duh. He kept going without anymore prompting, "Then there's your brother."

"Hm?"

"Your phone. It's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player. And you're looking for a flatshare. You wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches. Not one, many over time, it's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."

"The engraving." The words "Harry Watson. From Clara xxx" were indented on the back of John's phone.

"'Harry Watson'. Clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. Expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must have given it to him recently. This model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then. Six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would've kept it. People do. Sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her." He took his a breath, then switched tacks, "He gave the phone to you. That says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation. And you're not going to your brother for help? That says you've got problems with him, maybe you liked his wife, maybe you don't like his drinking."

"How can...you possibly know about the drinking?"

Another sly smile and Sherlock explained, "Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection, tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, you never see a drunk's without them. There you go. See, you were right." He held the phone out.

" _I_ was right." John echoed incredulously, taking it back. "Right about what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs." he sighed proudly.

"That..." John started, trying to sort out the things racing through his mind. Tumbling out came, "was amazing." He nodded definitively. There was a silence.

"You think so?" came the question.

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"'Piss off'." John's flatmate smiled at him, and he couldn't help grinning too.

Upon arriving and once the taxi was driving away, Sherlock asked, "Did I get anything wrong?"

"Harry and me don't get on." John admitted as they walked towards the crime scene. "Never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago, they're getting a divorce, and Harry... _is_ a drinker."

"Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything."

"Harry's short for Harriet." John grinned as Sherlock stopped walking in the wake of the bombshell.

"Harry's your sister." He nodded as he said it.

"Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" John inquired, focusing on the task at hand.

" _Sister_!" Sherlock repeated frustratedly.

"No, seriously, what am I doing here?"

"There's always something." the tall man said as if it was the scourge of his existence.

John was getting the feeling that his life was going to get very interesting from here on out.


End file.
